changed into a pillar of Glauber salts, and that Dr. Dryasdust, who inclines to Epsom, is a dolt, an idiot, and a knave.* It is impossible that such men can use their learning effectively, or as an in strument to elucidate the truth. An intimate acquaintance with the documentary and contemporary records, with the letters which the leaders wrote, and with the speeches which they made, is not unimportant; but only to a seer like Mr. Carlyle do these emit the flashes of light which reveal the inmost heart of the hero. An Act of Parliament which has been repealed for generations is a dead letter in literature as in law, until a capable student rescues it from neglect, and discovers an invaluable commentary upon the relations between the king and his parliament, and between the parliament and the people, in the preamble to a condemned or obsolete statute. A knowledge of the social habits and the political literature of our ancestors, such as Lord Macaulay possessed in perfection, is not to be despised; but the most minute details about their dress or their amusements will only go a little way to show us what they were. The value of such materials, apart from the picturesque effect which a judicious employment of them produces, is not intrinsic, but depends upon the eye which regards them. How, then, shall we distinguish the faculty which marks the historian? How is he to interpret the motives of a departed age? To trust to the judgment of contemporaries, or to the judgment 67 posterity has pronounced, is, as we have seen, to trust to a broken reed; and, in deciphering the worn hieroglyphics, we must ultimately fall back upon the finer sense which spontaneously discriminates the character of the living. A man unendowed with this capacity, when turned loose in a historical preserve, wanders about blindly and aimlessly, committing the most flagrant blunders, finding the great man in the knave, the booby in the hero or the martyr. But the writer who is true to its admonitions must always be substantially accurate; upon the whole, right in his estimate. With unconscious precision he separates the chaff from the wheat; he appropriates the grains of true metal while he casts the pebbles and sand aside; he looks with his mind's eye upon the grave faces of the dead, and they attract or repel him as the living do. This-call it what we choose, sympathy, insight, imaginative recognition-is what we must finally have recourse to in historical inquiry; for all other means-antiquarian nicety of research, the statutes at large, contemporaneous opinion, even the recorded sayings and doings of the men themselves-are only means to an end, and are in fact calculated to deceive and mislead where the historic instinct is wanting. The 'historic instinct' is thus a very rare and noble gift, involving indeed the very highest faculty of the mind; for, except a man can create, he cannot restore. The mason may rebuild with the old stones the spire which has been * ' And therefore,' says Francis Lee, M.D., in his Essay on the Metamorphosis of Lot's Wife, the true, natural, and genuine sense must be, not that any monument was raised over this unbelieving woman, how durable soever, and by means ordinary or extraordinary; nor that her body was made salt by a real Transmutation, Transelementation, of Principles; nor that the like portion of essential salt therein contained was by multiplication and organization built up into the form of an human body; But that all bodies in the world being produced from salt (as may be demonstrated), and salt being properly as the pillar of nature in the whole visible creation, and the primeval principle of solidity and durability, there was such a sudden induration of all the Parts of her body, without doubt, from the Abundance of the nitro-sulphurous particles penetrating the same throughout, that she became like a statue; and was her own monumental pillar, or a standing Mummy, to be seen by every one; not unfitly called salt, as both being of the same durable nature with it, and likewise originated from it.' And much more to the same effect.-Dissertations, &c. By Francis Lee, M.D. 1752. London. cast down; but it requires a man of original and independent genius -a man who, by an imaginative logic, can put together the shattered fragments and the scattered débris-to prevent the restoration from becoming a monument of incongruities. Every stone that the mere mechanic lays sins in some way against the original design, and he unwittingly displeases and offends because the old building was grander and more massive than the mind which is now at work upon it, and which cannot extend in the right direction the broken line, nor curve the ruined arch to the antique comeliness. The man who is to rebuild the minster should be the man who, when need is, can erect a minster of his own; and the historian who rehabilitates in flesh and blood the dry bones of the past must be not only an antiquary but a poet. And a sound analytic faculty implies not only an imaginative, but a moral guidance. I have said that we cannot undertake to arrange or classify men under the superintendence of any general principle. 'General theory' would be perhaps the better expression; for unquestionably we must contrive by some means or other to reach the central point in a man's character-the axle on which it revolves, the mainspring which impels and controls it. Unless we gain this, however clearly we may decipher certain of his motives, however lucidly we may explain his career at certain points, we will still grope and stumble in the dark. Without the key which unlocks the hidden machinery and explains its design, our work must be essentially guesswork. Now I think it is those writers whose sense of what is absolutely righteous or unrighteous is most intense and wakeful, who are able to refer capricious feelings and motives that seem from the surface fragmentary and unconnected, to some invariable principle of morals, who make the truest, most just, and most merciful judges of men. To them the chaos of mental disorder which distracts the casual observer, becomes or derly, the inconsistency is explained, the contradiction reconciled. Firmly grasping this plummet, instead of vociferating in blind horror and amazement 'rogue' or 'villain,' they can show where the lawyer, the soldier, or the statesman fell short, and why he fell short. To the possession of this faculty the vividness, distinctness, and profound feeling of reality which Mr. Maurice has imparted to the 'kings and prophets' of the old Hebrew commonwealth, which Mr. Kingsley has imparted to the Pagan and Christian teachers of Alexandria, are mainly to be attributed. 'The law was the same to them as to us, and a thousand years cannot quite separate them from us. These are human beings owing obedience to certain divine commandments, often wandering grievously away from them, sometimes striving to practise them, once or twice in their lives nearly succeeding.' When he comes to his work in this spirit, when he is made to feel that human life is girded by an eternal law, the historian finds his work marvellously simplified. No historian, therefore, can be really great, who is not at once a poet and a moralist. It is because Lord Macaulay was not gifted with the higher faculty of either that, notwithstanding his dramatic temper and admirable tact, he will fail to retain a first place in the ranks of English historians. Mr. Carlyle, uncouth as his handiwork appears when compared with that felicitous art and that finished rhetoric, is an infinitely truer student of life, an infinitely more reliable observer of the past. In these respects the Historian of the Commonwealth is to the Historian of the Revolution as the Iliad of Homer to the Iliad of Pope. Lord Macaulay, though he wrote poems, was not a poet; Mr. Carlyle, though he has written none, is. The one paints with inimitable grace the face; the other, though in a somewhat rough way, dissects the heart. The one is superficially accurate and picturesque, the other is true to the core. The one stops outside, and, microscope in hand, examines with im mense attention the coat: the other pierces into the life, noting the coat also as it passes, and finding something even there which had somehow eluded the eye of the other. For in contrast with the accuracy of the imagination, the literalness of an unpoetic intellect, even within its own field, is always comparatively sterile and unexact. "The poet and the moralist.' The poet to explore the hearts of men and women; the moralist to explain their actions by the laws which God has established in his universe. And it cannot be doubted, I think, that the higher and purer the imagination is, the higher and purer is the truth which it reaches. A great gulf, for instance, lies between the Lancelot of our great English poet, and the Lancelot of popular romance and monkish chronicle. Guided by a fervid imaginative and moral sympathy, Tennyson has read his perilous secret, and we know that he has read it truly. His picture of the Arthurian knight-flos regum Arthurus is a profound psychological study, intensely sad, because in 69 tensely true, and intensely true, because intensely human. He may have erred; it is possible that he may; but the chances are a hundred or a thousand to one that he is right. There can be no mistake about the literal truthfulness, the absolute obedience to the moral laws which always and everywhere preside over human conduct, which mark that marvellous study. And what a study it is! Lancelot is still the noble gentleman, 'the great knight, the darling of the court.' In his kindliness there is no disdain, in his 'utter courtesy' no deceit; he is 'mirthful, but in a stately kind;' generous, so that he cares only to strive with the strong; touched with a 'sacred fear' of the excellence of womanly purity, when the maiden stands beside him in the dewy light;' obedient to high emotion and heroic impulse; tender in manner and nature; of a great humility, understanding the full worth of the Master he has wronged, and ever eager to abase himself, and vindicate the stainless virtue and truer nobleness of the king. And in me there dwells Yet a plague-spot has eaten into his life. The bitter curse of repented but unforsaken sin is upon him. "The sweet image of one face' haunts him, making a treacherous quiet in his heart,' or maddening him with unfruitful remorse. is a solitary and a homeless man. There never can be wife of his, for 'woman's love save one he not He regarded,' and she is Arthur's queen. He hates the deadly spell which binds him; his anguish drives him into wastes and solitudes; he groans aloud, stricken by shame, and tortured by incurable passion; but the evil clings closely to him ever, the sore festers his body and corrupts his life. The great and guilty love he bore the Queen, And then the lily-maid of Astolat comes to him to the great and tarnished knight and stands beside him in the dewy dawn, and offers up to him the incense of her young life. Had he seen Elaine in her tender beauty, in her virginal purity, before he quaffed the fatal draught, before the rich, brilliant, passionate, luxurious soul of Guinevere had intoxicated him, draining his heart dry, and incapacitating him henceforth to enjoy any purer or simpler breath of love-what might have been! And peradventure, had he seen her first, Ah, that 'peradventure!' that 'might is to winnow the truth out of a man's life, and how terrible the responsibility upon him to speak the truth of the dead as well as of the living is, who will be least inclined to use harsh words or vivid colours, who will hesitate to condemn the infanti perduti of history, who will be urgent to leave them rather unsentenced and in hope, to the mercy which Guinevere craved, and which alone can fully extenuate or explain their guilt. If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, Yes, Lancelot, untrue to his God, Ah! Sir Launcelot,' said Sir Ector, 'thou wert head of all Christian knights.' 'And now, I dare say,' said Sir Bors, 'that Sir Launcelot, there thou liest, thou wert never matched of none earthly knight's hands; and thou wert the courtliest knight that ever bore shield; and thou wert the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou wert the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou wert the kindest man that ever stroke with sword; and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights; and thou wert the meekest man and the gentlest that ever ate in hall among ladies; and thou wert the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in the rest.' 'But after all,' quoth Reginald, as he wound up the argument, 'intensely human as all this is, we yet walk blindly and in the dark. The most searching, and penetrating, and brilliant faculty can but faintly reproduce these passionate forms, or restore that faded life. Arthur, and Guinevere, and Lancelot, are dead, and the best we can do will not bring them alive again. Let us be warned in time. Carpe diem. Let us make the most of the sunlight while we may; for they are fools who confide their fame to history, and seek atonement in the grave.' It may be that he is right in the main. A prudent scepticism, not rash, but critical, is perhaps the safest frame of mind. We see through a glass darkly. The past is an enigma. The voices of the dead are faint and distant. History will not become a branch of positive science till the secrets of all hearts are loosed, till at even-time it is light. So-there sits the Sphynx; silent, unmoved, inscrutable, confessing neither to bliss nor woe, awaiting the judgment of God. SHIRLEY. 1861.] 71 IDA CONWAY. BY J. M. C. CHAPTER XXI. CH! mein Gott, mein Gott! Du Himmel! What for a vast mess! what for an infinite trouble! Miss Ida, my lovely Miss Ida; it is in air, it is to wind. Ach! my lungs shall be stopped. I can no more.' The Baron dropped into a chair with these words, and panted; Arno lay at his feet and panted too. They had evidently both been running. The Baron had news which he longed to tell. It was the morning succeeding to the most important night of Ida's life; and she found herself trembling and fearful, longing, and yet dreading, to hear what there was to come, her imagination suggesting that it must have some intimate connexion with her own history. The Baron was urged to take breath, and speak clearly, and a glass of water was administered to help him on. Then he began again— It shall be a trouble; it shall be an alarm. Ach! Miss Ida, our gouvernante is detect; her midnight meeting is to wind; all our maison Wertheim is in storm. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Ach! Miss Ida, it shall not be my discreet lips to have told. Mon Dieu! how true is our French proverb, "tout se sait, tout se sait." Ach! but our young Count he is pale, he is in fury; he shall have questioned me. Mein Gott! Miss Ida, I shall not be a liar, even for a woman. And so it is our unfortunate gouvernante to plier bagage. I shall never have seen, I dare say, a face to grow so white as our young Count's. It is nature, it is nature, for Madame Wolf is his sister's friend, his sister's gouvernante; and he has called our Pole a chief hound of hell; it is nature. Ach! Miss Ida, I beg pardon, I should not repeat such words, but he is so high in his displeasure. He has told to his sister (I hear so from her good maid Caroline), zis hound of hell is a married man!' 'Married! a married man! Oh, Baron!' Ach, so! mein Gott, it is true. Mon Dieu, oui, Miss Ida; you are surprised I was so dull not to know it before. Ach, but I have too much my delicacies, my scruples, and I shall not enough investigate for my friends. For safety we ought all to know all.' 'Indeed, indeed, Baron, but this is terrible for Dorothea; how unhappy, how shocked she must be, at such a disclosure. I will go to see her presently, when she is alone. Oh, I dare not think how it might have been had she not turned away from that atrocious man in time!' 'Ach, mon Dieu, oui, Miss Ida! And it is all complications to-day ; old Près de Lys, grand-père, is come trembling ze all way from Paris for his petit fils, his little son. Our young Près de Lys is his brains in air still, his hair shaved as a poodle dog's, and he presents a pistol at our grand-père; our poor old feeble man, he has cried so bitter for his child's shaved head. I have kept for him his curls in a parcel, but I cannot conjure zem on his head again. It is so sad to see; it is today he has come, and he shall be eighty-nine in zwei monaten. Ach! have I told you? I have seen Count Ernest to drive by, and a black silk skirt inside his carriage; it is Madame Wolf's skirt; and lie takes her her last drive off to ze train for Paris. Mon Dieu, how pale our young Count is! I will tell you; Graf Wertheim is become an infinite cold iceberg for his son, and our GrandDuke a vast hot volcano for his daughter. It is all complications. In our Blatt to-day is a new arrival; it is to Mr. Orme, his friend Reverend Peter Greenfield, mit Frau. Good bye, good bye, Miss Ida, it is so busy for me to-day, for I must go back to Paris, I believe, to-morrow, to take care for my friends, my so helpless couple of Près de |